


We Are Learning To Make Fire

by flawedamythyst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2018-10-16 08:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10567779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Waiting for Sam to wake up was worse than all the rest of it put together.





	

Waiting for Sam to wake up was worse than all the rest of it put together. The whole apocalypse – Sam being forced to say ‘yes’ to Lucifer so that they could destroy him, Lucifer finally dying and Dean thinking for a heart-stopping moment that he’d taken Sam with him, all of it paled into insignificance compared to sitting by Sam’s bed, listening to the machines beep and wondering if they were about to alarm out.

And even if Sam did wake up, Dean couldn’t forget seeing Raphael’s vessel sitting blankly in his wheel chair with nothing behind his eyes. Dean was pretty sure that Sam would rather die than be like that, and he was damned sure that he’d rather Sam died than be like that.

Sam’s coma lasted nearly a week. Dean didn’t bother responding to any of the nurses’ gentle suggestions that he go home and get some sleep. With the way things had been going the last few years, if he left demons were bound to attack, or Sam would wake up and get it into his head to run off, or something equally annoying. Dean wasn’t going anywhere.

When Sam finally opened his eyes, Dean almost missed it. He was staring aimlessly out the window at the night sky, thoughts rumbling along on very depressing lines, and he only really glanced at Sam as a reflex. It took him a couple of moments to realise that Sam was looking back, his eyes calm and his face still in the placid expression he’d worn while he was unconscious.

“Sammy,” said Dean, unable to hide his relief. He sat forward and put his hand on Sam’s arm. “Christ, you can’t scare me like that.” He rang for assistance, and the room was soon bustling with activity, everyone talking at once and pushing Dean back out of the way as they checked over Sam.

Sam didn’t say a word. He just lay there, blinking up at the nurses as if they were alien creatures. The nurses all gave each other significant looks, and one of them scurried off to get a doctor.

Dean stepped close to the bed and took Sam’s hand. “Hey, kid,” he said quietly, and Sam’s eyes turned to look at him. “Don’t go quiet on me now. It’s over, you can forget about it all. Good guys won, bad guys are gone. Time for the happy ending, right?”

Sam’s hand closed around Dean’s, but he didn’t speak, and his expression didn’t change. Dean felt a sick feeling beginning to form in the pit of stomach.

 

****

 

The look on the doctor’s face didn’t reassure Dean at all. He ran a bunch of tests, then took Dean aside to talk to him quietly about the complexities of the human brain, and how little they really knew about it. Dean watched Sam’s face over the doctor’s shoulder, and wondered just how much Sam understood right now.

“Could it be some kind of post-traumatic thing?” he asked when the doctor had run out of words. “Stress, or whatever?”

The doctor gave him a sharp look. “Possibly,” he allowed. “Severe trauma can sometimes result in voluntary mutism. You said this was a car accident - did something happen that you’ve not mentioned, Mr Bonham?”

Dean shook his head tiredly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” It seemed like their whole lives had been one severe trauma after another. Sam’s hand shifted against the covers, and he left the doctor standing there in order to go and sit on the edge of his bed.

“You always have to do things the tough way,” he said quietly. Sam just stared at him blankly. Dean tried to take it as a good sign that Sam always turned his face towards Dean when he spoke, as opposed to just staring blankly into space like he did with the nurses and doctors, but it was hard to take comfort in anything right now.

It was all meant to be over – angels and demons sent back home, human race saved from imminent apocalypse, and the Winchesters free from all the crap that both heaven and hell had been plaguing them with for years – for their whole lives. Instead, it looked like there was never going to be an end to this – they were never going to get to just draw a line under it all and move on.

Sam was still staring at him, mouth fixed in a straight line as if he’d completely forgotten it was even there, let alone how to use it. Dean wondered what else he’d forgotten – how much of Sam was left inside the blank shell.

“Are you even in there, Sammy?” he asked. “You hearing me?”

Sam just blinked, and continued to stare at him. Dean sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face.

 

****

 

He called Bobby the next morning. “He’s not completely unresponsive,” he told him. “As long as you guide him, he’ll sit up, move where you want him to. It’s just...he’s like a doll, or a robot. Going through the motions, but there’s nothing behind it.”

“Give him time,” said Bobby. “He’s been through a lot. Getting regular possessed is bad enough, but having Satan riding you like a rodeo cowboy....I can’t even imagine.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Dean, glancing over at where Sam was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, staring blankly out at the clouds. The hospital’s psychiatrist was sitting with him, trying to get some response, but it was as if Sam didn’t even know she was there.

“He’s stubborn,” Bobby reminded him. “He won’t let Lucifer beat him, not like this.”

Dean swallowed. “I don’t know, Bobby,” he said slowly. “You haven’t seen him. I’m not sure there's any of him left to be stubborn.”

Bobby was silent for a long moment. “He’ll be okay,” he said, but he didn’t sound very confident. “You’ll get through to him, somehow. You boys always find a way, with each other.”

Dean took a deep breath, wondering if that would be enough. He and Sam hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms in the last couple of years, after all. He’d been kinda hoping that they’d be able to fix that after everything was over, get back to the balance they’d found before Sam’s death in Cold Oak. For a while there, it had been like everything was falling perfectly into place. The on-again, off-again sex thing they'd had since they were teenagers had slotted together with the way they were hunting as a team, perfectly matched, until it had all begun to feel like a real relationship, like something that was going to last.

Then Sam had died, and Dean had made that stupid deal, and the whole thing had fallen apart. Dean had been counting on finding their way back to that now that they'd sorted out all the other shit, but it didn’t seem like that was going to happen now, not with Sam like this.

“I got to go,” he told Bobby.

“Keep me updated on how he is,” said Bobby. “And, Dean...you boys need somewhere to go, you know you’re always welcome here.”

“I know,” said Dean. “Thanks Bobby.”

“Take care,” replied Bobby and he hung up.

 

****

 

The psychiatrist didn’t get anything out of Sam, and didn’t have anything to tell Dean that he didn’t already know.

“He’s withdrawn completely,” she said. “I'm sorry, Mr Bonham.”

“But will he come out of it?” Dean asked.

“He might,” she said, but Dean could tell from her voice that she really had no idea. “Something might jolt him out of it, or he might just gradually come back to himself.”

Dean went over to stand next to Sam's chair, looking out at the same sky for a moment, wondering if Sam was even seeing it. He glanced down at Sam's docile face, remembering all the emotions he'd seen written large on it – anger, mirth, passion. Sam had always been so expressive, as if his emotions were too strong to be contained. He tentatively put his hand onto Sam's head, fingers sliding smoothly through the strands of his hair. Sam’s gaze shifted from the sky to his face, but that was all the response Dean got.

“Hey, Sammy,” said Dean. He waited, without much hope, for a response, but none came. He sighed. “What we going to do about this one?” Sam continued to just watch his face with empty eyes. Dean felt despair well up in him. It felt like every time he thought he was getting close to a happy ending, it slipped out of his grasp, leaving him with nothing but ashes.

It had always been okay before, though, because Sam was always there. Even when they were fighting, or Sam was a million miles away, living his 'normal' life at Stanford, he always believed deep down that they’d one day make up and everything would be fine.

“You remember when we were kids?” he said. Sam didn't make a sign that he'd heard, but Dean kept going anyway. “I’d piss you off some how – mock your hair or hide your book or something – and you’d stop talking to me, pretend I didn’t exist. Man, I hated that. I used to make out it didn’t bother me, but I really hated it.” He paused, and looked away from Sam’s blank, unresponsive face. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he made no move to hide them. Sam probably had no idea what he was saying anyway.

“You never could last long, though,” he continued. “You’d forget, or something would happen that you’d have to comment on. It used to frustrate you that you couldn’t stick to it longer than a few hours, but I couldn’t have stood it if you’d ignored me longer.” He paused, swallowing back his emotions. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

There was a tentative touch on his knee, and he opened his eyes to see Sam’s hand on it. He looked up, surprised, to see Sam looking at him, properly seeing him for the first time since he’d woken up.

“Dean,” he said in a raspy whisper.

Dean put his hand over Sam’s. “Sammy,” he answered, in a voice just as hushed as Sam's. Sam didn’t say anything else, but his hand squeezed Dean’s knee. Dean felt hope unfurl in his chest again. They were going to make it. They were going to get their happy ending. It might take a bit longer than Dean had been planning, but they'd get there.


End file.
